


Indelible Art

by marietcaelum



Series: Some of us, we have tattoos [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Agender Character, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:15:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marietcaelum/pseuds/marietcaelum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Because the ink in my skin<br/>Where the needle went in<br/>However many years ago<br/>Has left marks on my arms<br/>And they say who I am<br/>Everywhere that I go"</p><p>~Frank Turner</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indelible Art

Grantaire is practically covered in tattoos. So much so that he's the best advertisement that the parlour he runs with Feuilly could ever hope for. Regardless of whether or not they approve of tattoos as such, everybody who sees him will at the very least give him a second glance - enough come to him asking where he had them done that he's taken to carrying business cards in his coat pocket.

He gets plenty of curious stares, and on occasion he's asked for a photograph - it's a tossup as to whether he's accosted by somebody with an iphone or an opportunistic enthusiast. Not for the same reason as Enjolras, of course. Grantaire was born with a face that only his mother had ever claimed to love, and he always argued that anybody who drank that much couldn't see straight anyway. He wasn't born looking like an abercrombie and fitch model - he started out ugly and made himself entrancing - those who stare do so with good cause.

Besides, you're _supposed_ to admire works of art.

There's something of each of his friends marked indelibly upon him, a metaphor given physical form by his ridiculous sentimentality and wry sense of humour. Lines of poetry curve across his hip in Jehan's flowing script; he'll freely admit that he doesn't have a clue what they're supposed to mean, but they're _Jehan's_ and he never tires of hearing the poet attempt to explain their precise meaning. There's a different interpretation every time, his favourite of which began "Grantaire, you have to understand, I was _really_ high at the time..." and ended "Hey, but they're pretty nice to listen to, right?" He knows for a fact that his friend was stone cold sober, but the truth should never get in the way of a good story.

Feuilly designed the swirling tangle of lines that knot together and cover his left shoulderblade. Dark and consuming, they interweave like every fairy tale the two of them were told as children. He knows that R has fought his way out of his very own deep dark forest, escaped from the cautionary tale that was his childhood. He had to beat worse than every single villain the brothers Grimm ever scribbled down in order to get the fuck away from where he started out. It's a reminder that he won, l too, because 'Taire always forgets that he's strong as hell at the _dumbest_ of times. But hey,Ffeuilly can identify with that.

Eponine's contribution is a number on the back of his right hand, plain and clinical: 0.39. It's from before he met half the people who keep him sane and sober, back when instead of the smell of coffee and the warm brown walls of the Musain, there were hospital rooms and shouting matches and "I swear to god Grantaire, I can't _do_ this any more."

Jasmine flowers wind around his wrists, covering the pale scars that cut across each one. The places that Cosette's thumb brushed over far too many times. She left the white flowers by his bed every time she visited, giving smiles and gentleness even as Eponine glowered and uttered dire threats against his person. He owes his life to both of the Fauchelevent sisters, he knows. And on the nights when he's desperately lonely and there's a hollow ache in his chest that he _knows_ will be drowned by a bottle or two of whatever's closest... well, he'll reach for it only to see that number glaring back at him, and falter. When he gropes for a razor, a sharp edge, anything that will stop the world roaring through him and filling him with its deafening chaos... he's never yet been quite able to bring himself to slice through the delicate flowers and mar their beauty.

There are shards of glass the exact grey-blue shade of Enjolras' eyes resting over his heart, sharp and dangerous. Even Grantaire isn't entirely certain as to whether the lines of red that run along each edge are supposed to be drawn blood or the glow of fire, or sunset, or any one of a million things that burn crimson.

By contrast, Combeferre's is dry and dusty, a faded brown diagram of _Acherontia Atropes_ \- the death's head moth - with precise labels in the doctor's own hand bristling from it like pins. It's a reminder of everything he likes about the man; his calm acceptance of the macabre or frightening aspects of who Grantaire is, his love of knowledge and the pursuit thereof, his remarkable appreciation for the fragility of life... Not to mention his total indifference for anything not bound in leather and filled with knowledge. Mere human beings took second place next to the wonders of creation for 'Ferre.

Courfeyrac is in the rainbow of colours inlaid into the pattern of stained glass that runs down his right shin - bright and cheerful even throughout the gloomy days that are so common in England. There's also the fact that Courf's as gay as hell, and drags R off to pride parades whenever he possibly can. There they yell support and swig coffee and munch on Greggs' pasties in the pouring rain like the hipster Courf is. And though Grantaire's pretty sure he occupies the sexuality grey area of 'Who the fuck cares?' (or as Courfeyrac describes it with a snigger, 'wibbly-wobbly sexy-wexy') he'll defend to the death his friend's right to sleep with whoever he falls in love with. Which so far seems to include any man on the planet who'll love him back. Lucky bastard's never been unrequited yet. Besides, some of the best days he can remember have been spent with Courfeyrac standing in the pouring rain and singing 'It's raining men' until their throats are raw.

The network of cracks and chips that make his right jaw seem like it's been shattered aren't Bossuet. The pieces of sellotape that hold them together are though, his clumsy friend's chosen method for fixing anything when there's no ductape to be found. He's been fixed up a lot, has Grantaire, but the cracks are still there - what holds him together is his friends, and the person who sprang to mind was Bossuet when he spent too much time thinking about that one was the affable not-quite-a-lawyer, so there you go.

The human circulatory system weaves its way down R's right arm in red and blue, mapping out the fragile network of organic matter that keeps him alive. There's no question as to whose contribution to the canvas that R has made of his body that one is. Joly has always had a bizarre reverence for the complex piece of machinery that is the human body. It's another promise (and he recognises that this is a recurring theme between his friends and him, but he needs _something_ to keep him here) to preserve his very own biological wonder. He's spent a lot of time abusing it, and he can hardly bear the little twitch Joly gets when he casually mentions the years he spent courting death simply because it was too much effort to try and remain in the land of the living.

Bahorel is curved around his neck, in the form of an Egyptian cobra winding its way about his throat; scales the colour of dust and sand, each one a dull pebble and the taste of the desert at the back of his throat. It’s been years since he saw the burly black athlete, since he was taught to box and dance and fence – to _use_ his body, rather than simply live in it. He misses the savanna sometimes, on the days when the sun beats down upon him and makes the tarmac yield a little beneath his feet. Bahorel had shared the snake’s sinuous grace and muscle, xir deceptive calm in repose and lightning fast strike. Xe had shown Grantaire that he had worth; even if he’d forgotten that once he’d grown up, he had kept in shape and practised each art form religiously.

There were many more, of course. Marks of who he had been, the many mistakes he’d made (Montparnasse is a gleaming silver blade along his ribcage, which is oddly appropriate considering how _that_ had ended) and the things he still was.

He’d started off blank and homely, and over the years he’s wrought himself into a masterpiece – unfinished, yes; There are still gaps waiting to be filled with whatever life throws at him – and people stare at him when he passes by. But hell, he’s made a few friends that way, and it’s better than being the drunk lying in the gutter, the most invisible person in town except when people are searching for some poor sod to look down upon.

He’s not being that guy any more. Never again.

Let him be art. Let him be loved, even if it’s only by his friends and sometimes himself.

He’s beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> '0.39' refers to alcohol poisoning - 0.4 is the potentially lethal blood alcohol level.


End file.
